


Las Almas de los Leones

by clockheartedcrocodile



Series: León de mi Corazón [2]
Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Body Worship, Canon-Typical Demonic Possession, Christmas fic, Established Relationship, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Hurt / Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Intimacy, Love Letters, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Vows, Metaphors, Post-Season/Series 02, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Wedding Night, action-adventure subplot, divine intervention, first time anal sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-15 20:57:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13039245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockheartedcrocodile/pseuds/clockheartedcrocodile
Summary: “I want just one beautiful thing in my life, Tomas,” Marcus says quietly. “Just one beautiful thing.”“Then we’ll pray for that,” Tomas says. “Let’s pray for that together, right here. Let’s each pray for the most beautiful thing we can think of.”“Alright,” says Marcus. He wipes his nose on the back of his hand. “Alright.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this angsty yet cozy Christmas fix-it fic! Please bear in mind that this is technically a sequel, but you don't have to have read the first fic in order to read this one. The previous fic took place in the gap between S1 and S2, so naturally, this one takes place after S2.
> 
> I can be found on Tumblr at @clockhearted-crocodile if you want to come say hi.

The False Bennett flies first class.

There’s an indescribable _je ne sais quoi_ about flying above the clouds. It puts one in mind of religious greeting cards, insipid pastel daydreams of infant angels and snow-white lambs. Hallmark Heaven. Now _that_ is a Heaven he’d like to see.

This is a good seat. Plenty of leg room and in-flight entertainment. The stewardesses have blue eyes and an abundance of performative smiles. There’s nothing the False Bennett enjoys quite so much as performative smiles.

He looks down at his hands and admires them, running them up and down the tailored silk on his thighs. They seem performative enough. Manicured nails, skin as clean and soft as the lining of a baby’s heart. One would imagine the hands of such an exorcist to be calloused and scarred, but no. These are the hands of a pencil-pushing papist.

Soft, padding footsteps, then a clearing of the throat. “Excuse me, sir, may I interest you in a drink?”

The False Bennett doesn’t deign to look up. “No thank you, as I said before.”

“Are you quite sure, sir?”

“Yes,” he says sharply. He has a clipped, well-educated voice, and he enjoys using it whenever he can. “I have no wish to be disturbed, Miss . . .”

The demon glances up.

The woman standing over him has followed him from Bali to Bangladesh, from South Africa to Curacao. He notes her broken fingernails and sun-scalded cheeks. The False Bennett looks up at her and smiles lazily. “You would engage me here? On a flight?”

She lifts her chin a little higher. “I might. It’s a confined space.”

“A confined space full of innocents. But you don’t care about that, I know. I admire it,” The False Bennett lowers his voice just enough to make her lean in. “I could drop this plane with a word, you know. I could fill every oxygen tank with corpse-breath before the first screams started. If I were you, I would try that the-power-of-Christ-compels-you schtick until we’ve landed.”

For a moment, he wonders if she’ll just ignore him, but instead she nods like she’s granting him a courtesy. “I don’t intend to exorcise you,” she says just as quietly. “I intend to put a bullet in your brain.”

“You’ve been dogging my steps for a long time,” says the False Bennett. He brushes an invisible speck of dust off one lapel. “I like that you haven’t let anything- or anyone- hold you back. That’s a quality you share with us, daughter of Sceva.”

He had hoped that would bring about a twinge of fear or even discomfort, but her face is impassive. Then she smiles. Performative. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like that drink?”

“No thank you, dear,” he says pleasantly. “Do be on your way.”

The demon smiles languorously as she turns her back, and begins to inspect his nails. Only four more hours till they land in Chile. Then heat, then clear sea air, then teeming crowds. Perhaps a chance to end this farce once and for all.

Shame he’ll have to kill her. After so many months of cat-and-mouse, she’s become the closest thing he has to a friend.

“Cat and mouse,” he murmurs, and grins a feline grin.

***

Marcus is uncomfortably aware of the filthy bootprints he’s trailed up to the front desk, and the bile crusted into his shirt. “You don’t have to keep us,” he insists. “Really, we’re used to sleeping on the road.”

Mary gives him a stern look over the rim of her glasses, but Marcus can see her hand shaking as she writes his name in the guest book. She keeps glancing off to the side, where the main entrance hall opens out into a wide sitting room. Through the open door, Marcus can catch a glimpse of a crackling fireplace, and the cold stone walls of the old church made festive by red ribbons and garlands of holly and mistletoe. It’s quiet at this time of night, but a few guests are still up, clustered in armchairs or around checkerboards. One corner of the room is full of scattered picture books and puzzles, and a pair of three-year-olds are fighting over a plastic kitchen set.

Two men are sitting on the floor by the fireplace, whispering indistinctly to each other, and snuggled between them is a girl no older than ten. She’s swaddled in three thick blankets, and one of the men, her father, is gently coaxing her into eating some soup. It’s to them that Mary’s eyes keep darting.

Marcus knows that feeling well, and he knows it won’t ever go away. He reaches out to hold her hand, but stops himself. His hand is still filthy, and he awkwardly wipes it clean on his thigh instead. If anything, it makes it dirtier.

Mary notices his gesture and smiles just the same, letting him know it’s appreciated. “You’re certainly not sleeping on the road,” she says. Her face is stern but her voice is as soft and sweet as a bite of gingerbread. “You’re staying the night even if we have to kick somebody out. Probably more than one night, if the storm doesn’t let up.”

“I’m sorry,” Marcus says again, “but we can’t pay you for this.”

“You’ve done more for us than we dared hope,” she says. Her watchful eyes move again to the fireplace, where the little girl is beginning to smile. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “My hands just . . . won’t stop shaking, you know?”

“I know,” Marcus says sincerely. “If you’re sure about letting us stay here, then thank you, but please don’t kick anyone else out.”

“We only have one room left,” she says.

Marcus’ heart jumps in his chest. “That’s fine,” he says, a little too quickly, and Mary begins digging around in the desk drawers for a key.

Marcus looks at the fireplace in the next room, and the three figures huddled close to it. Usually, the aftermath isn’t so tidy. Maybe it’s a Christmas miracle.

He could do with a miracle right about now.

Marcus rests his hand on the doorframe and leans into the room. _“Tomas,”_ he whispers. Tomas looks up at him.

He smiles so much nowadays, like Marcus’ face is a sunrise he’s glad to see. His hair is longer than Marcus has ever seen it, and there are new worry lines at the corners of his eyes. He looks older.

“We’re going to be staying here for a few days,” Marcus says. “Least till the storm passes.”

Tomas’ expression softens in gratitude. He hugs the girl again, just once, before standing up. His clothes are even filthier than Marcus’, and his trousers squeak when he walks. The girl’s father, Albert, stands up too and clasps Tomas’ hands tightly between his own. Marcus sees him whisper something inaudible.

“Ah,” says Mary, and Marcus returns his attention to the deal. “There we are.”

She offers Marcus a thick brass key with a wooden tag. “Room 3. Just upstairs, two doors down,” she says. “Dinner’s at eight, but I suppose you’d rather sleep?”

“I’m knackered,” Marcus says ruefully, which makes her smile. “Besides . . .”

He gestures to his clothes, and Mary nods in sympathy. “No,” she says, the moment Marcus begins to apologize for the carpet. “No no no. No more sorries.”

Marcus opens his mouth to apologize again but his burner buzzes in his pocket before he can. He gives Mary an apologetic look as he flips it open. “Where are you?” he whispers. Only two other phones in the world have this number.

Tomas comes up next to him with both of their bags slung over his shoulder. He thanks Mary for her hospitality while Marcus hunches over his phone, then gives him a nudge with his shoulder and gestures towards the stairs.

Tomas goes up first and Marcus follows, his thoughts a world away. “When did you last sleep?” he asks. A pause. Then, “Are you sure it’s him? Yeah. Alright, I . . . Take care. Please. We’ll be praying for you.”

He snaps the burner shut before he says something he’ll regret. “Mouse is in Curacao,” he tells Tomas shortly. “Or she was.”

“Where is she now?”

“Chile,” Marcus says grimly. “She’s found Bennett.”

Tomas is fumbling with the key to their room. “After all this time?”

“Evidently,” Marcus sighs. He runs his hand down his face, rubs the back of his neck. “She knows what she’s doing, knows how to travel fast and not leave a paper trail. And she knows how to hold a grudge.”

“Traveling alone has its advantages.”

“To some,” Marcus says quietly, as the key turns in the lock.

Tomas gives a little whoop of satisfaction when the door finally opens. He enters at once and divests himself of his coat, Marcus following cautiously in his wake. He looks around him, amazing, half ready for for Mary and Albert to come stampeding up the stairs, telling him there must’ve been some mistake. There’s no more room at the inn.

The room seems comfortable and far warmer than what Marcus is used too. There’s a pair of rippled glass windows looking out over the snow and distant forest. There’s a writing desk in the corner, complete with scrap paper and pens. They even have their own bathroom, and a fireplace with a space heater in it that Tomas is already turning on. The bed is wide enough for two but only just. It looks soft enough for a child to jump on, and Marcus would’ve fallen face-first into it at once if he hadn’t been covered in effluvia.

The heater turns on with a soft buzz that fades into silence. Tomas stands up again and stretches with a groan. “Sometimes I envy her,” he says. “At least she is somewhere warm.”

“Envy is a sin, brother,” Marcus says gently, and Tomas looks at him with enough fondness to make Marcus’ cheeks burn.

“You can shower first,” he says. “You’re tracking mud.”

***

The water runs just this side of too hot, and Marcus sighs in pleasure as the shower fills with steam. For four days, they have lived in the forest like animals, suffering out of love for a girl they had never met. “Theresa,” Albert had said, his hands shaking as he poured another glass. “Her name is Theresa.”

They had found her eating a bear carcass behind a rock.

Marcus had lashed her to a tree, sheltered and away from the wind, and there they had exorcised her. It was imperative that none of the guests suspect anything was amiss, and if they heard howling from the forest, well, the wolves were to blame for that.

They had not dared to take their eyes from the demon’s face for even a moment. They built fires and slept in shifts, one keeping watch and praying while the other lay curled up under their arm, leeching their body heat and trying for a few minutes of sleep.

On the second day, Tomas slept for several hours, and Marcus hadn’t slept at all. He’d held Tomas close against his chest while the forest closed in around them.

 **What has the Church done for you lately, man of God?** sneered the demon. Theresa’s head cracked hard against the tree trunk before lolling forward, dripping green ichor from its open wound of a mouth.

 _“All things came into being thorough Him,”_ Marcus hissed, baring his teeth against the cold. _“Without Him, there came to be not one thing that has come to be.”_

**Look at you now, all worn out and used up. The years sear themselves into your skin, Marcus. I can smell the burning flesh.**

_“In Him was life, and the life was the light of men,”_ Marcus continued, shutting his eyes tight. He could still hear the labored breathing. _“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not lay hold of it.”_

 **The Church created you,** the demon coughed, two green bubbles bursting at the corner of the girl’s mouth. **Not God. The moment you became inconvenient, they cast you out. Took the best years of your life from you. Your innocence. Your youth. They took your soul for a joyride and fucked the life out of it, didn’t they?**

The demon laughed.

**How many times has someone held out to you, in their cupped hands, their still-beating heart? And how many times have you dashed it to the ground? Love is wasted on you, you ugly fucking cunt.**

The demon spat, and leaked, and bubbled, and roared.

Tomas’ heartbeat had felt as weak as the pulse of a baby bird.

The cold.

“Marcus.”

The cold was unendurable.

And he was still there, wasn’t he? Still kneeling in the snow, trying to pray but unable to hear the words through the demon’s jeering, and there it was, wasn’t it, the blueprint of the rest of their lives, laid out before them forever and ever and ever . . .

“Marcus!”

Tomas’ hands are gripping his arms. The shower wall is hot and slick against his back. Marcus is sitting slumped against the wall, slowly returning to himself. He can feel himself shivering, although the bathroom is full of steam. The shower is still running. It feels like sitting under a punishing rain.

Tomas’ hands are on his face and in his hair. “I’m fine,” Marcus tries to say, but to his dismay he only manages a stifled croak. Tomas sits down next to him and pulls him close, a terrible look on his face. “Shh,” he hums. “Shh, shh. I’ve got you.”

Marcus lays his head against Tomas’ shoulder and realizes Tomas is still wearing his clothes. The water pours off him as black and filthy as sewage. He’s soaked to the skin in seconds, but he doesn’t seem to care, his attention focused entirely on Marcus.

It’s pathetic. Marcus is pathetic. He feels like a child who’s had a nightmare, and he wants to snarl and sob all at once. He tries to keep the words down, but Tomas is _holding_ him, touching his face and neck, and Marcus is so very, very tired.

“I don’t want to do this forever,” he whispers, and at the last word, the dam breaks and he begins to cry. “I don’t want this to be the rest of our lives.”

“Te amo,” Tomas murmurs softly, stroking Marcus’ shorn scalp. “Te amo, te amo, te amo.”

Marcus lets the sobs overtake him, his chest aching with the sudden pressure of it. “I don’t want Mouse to be chasing demons halfway around the world,” he rambles. “I don’t want to lose my best friend. _My best friend._ I didn’t even _like_ him.”

It feels like blasphemy to even suggest that he might have wanted a different life. He wants to fall to his knees and pray till his lungs give out. _Forgive my discontent, oh Lord, forgive my blasphemy. My life is Yours but please, be gentle with me, the way my father never was._

“I thought I was damned,” Marcus whispers. He grips Tomas tighter, as though hoping to make him understand by sheer force of will. “I thought I would never hear His voice again, or see His face. I thought I gave my life to Him for nothing.”

“You are forgiven, Marcus,” Tomas says gently. “You heard it from His mouth. Our Lord is all-powerful. Not cruel, but . . . forceful. He is like a jealous lover. What He wants, He gets, and He wants you. You told me once that His plan is not for us to know. But what we _do_ know,” and here he shifts a little so he can look Marcus in the face, “is that if God had not made you an exorcist, we would not have found each other. I know that is not enough. But it is something.”

They sit together for a long moment, holding each other as the water runs cold.

“I want just one beautiful thing in my life, Tomas,” Marcus says quietly. “Just one beautiful thing.”

“Then we’ll pray for that,” Tomas says. “Let’s pray for that together, right here. Let’s each pray for the most beautiful thing we can think of.”

“Alright,” says Marcus. He wipes his nose on the back of his hand. “Alright.”

They untangle themselves from each other, and Marcus reaches up to finally turn off the water. They kneel side by side on the shower floor. Marcus prays in English, Tomas prays in Spanish, and when their voices finally trail off into amens and silence, the floor is nearly dry.

***

That night, they stay up late with their Bibles open in their laps, and when Tomas finally reaches over to turn off the lamp, Marcus asks him what he prayed for.

“A husband,” he says, and when Marcus kisses him, it’s the closest they’ve ever come to touching Heaven.


	2. Chapter 2

Tomas’ breakfast usually consists of a packet of chips, an apple, and coffee that burns his tongue. Mary and Albert’s invitation to eat with them in the morning comes as a welcome surprise.

The dining room had long ago been the main worship hall of the chapel, and it still held a kind of solemn grandeur that all the plaid tablecloths and mistletoe wreaths couldn’t quite dispel. The windows were tall and frosty white, all iron and whorled glass. On a sunny day the light would’ve refracted off the snow brightly enough to illuminate the whole hall in a pearly glow.

Marcus and Tomas receive a few grim looks from other guests, but not many. They’ve cleaned themselves up, and Tomas in his collar is almost enough to make Marcus in his leather jacket look respectable. Theresa keeps smiling up at Marcus and hiding her face behind the holly centerpiece.

“This is delicious, Mary,” Marcus says through a mouthful of toast.

Tomas, who hasn’t eaten in days, is about ready to eat everything on the table including the silverware. “Thank you, Mary, this is such a blessing.”

“Oh, don’t thank me,” Mary says shyly, nudging Albert under the table. “Albert made most of it.”

“Theresa loves scrambled eggs,” says Albert, leaning down to hug Theresa with one arm. She groans and shrinks away from him, but she’s smiling.

“This place is beautiful,” says Tomas between forkfuls of eggs. “How long have you lived here?”

“Oh it’s been . . . six years now?” Albert says thoughtfully, exchanging a look with his wife for confirmation. “Mary’s grandfather used to be the caretaker of this place, never did anything much with it.”

“You should’ve seen it back then,” Mary says. “Absolutely falling apart, and colder inside than out, but Albert and I just fell in love with the place.”

“We started looking after it, after Daniel passed on,” Albert continues. “We’ve always felt that a house of the Lord has a duty to be a safe harbor of sorts. A place where people can rest for a while and get in out of the cold.”

“So you took an old, dead church, put candles in the windows and made an inn out of it.”

“You object, Father?”

“No no, not at all. I think it’s beautiful.”

Theresa tugs on Mary’s sleeve, and Mary leans down to listen to her. Marcus turns to Albert. “Do you get a lot of guests this time of year? Mary told me you’re nearly booked up.”

“We’ve been really blessed this year, yes,” Albert says. He lowers his voice a little. “That’s why discretion was so important. I can’t tell you how grateful we are for how quickly you handled everything.”

“Thank you for having faith in us. Without your prayers, we might never have gotten through to her at all.”

“Theresa says she likes your jacket,” says Mary.

Marcus raises his eyebrows in exaggerated surprise. “What, this old thing? I’ve had it for years.”

It’s an old jacket, but one that Tomas has often admired on him. Worn soft in all the right places, and full of scraggly stitches on the inside in a rainbow of different threads. Marcus has repaired the lining too many times to count.

“I like it,” Theresa says, a little bolder now.

“Thank you, m’duck,” Marcus says fondly. Theresa starts poking at her scrambled eggs, smiling with a look that’s all too familiar to Tomas. It’s that Marcus-likes-me smile that graces the face of everyone on the receiving end of his affection. “I like your sweater,” Marcus adds teasingly. “Plain black’s best for guys like me, but, if I had to pick a color, pink’s the one.”

“You’ll be staying the night, won’t you?” Mary asks Tomas. Theresa pokes her head out from the holly berries and ducks back behind it again. “The blizzard’s not letting up anytime soon, and I’d hate to know you were spending Christmas Eve on the road.”

“If it’s not too much trouble . . ?”

“It’s not,” Albert says firmly. “We insist. And- _Theresa.”_

Theresa is now kicking her father’s chair leg. She whispers something to him. Tomas can vaguely hear the words _I wanna_  and _trees,_ and Albert sighs in a long-suffering way.

“If it doesn’t inconvenience you,” he says to Marcus apologetically, “Theresa wants to show you her paper crafts. She does these collage things, and she likes to show them off whenever she makes new friends. If it’s not a bother.”

“It’s no bother,” Marcus says, smiling at Theresa. “What, just me? No Tomas?”

Theresa shakes her head. “He’s _scary.”_

Tomas takes a sip of his coffee and tries to look wounded. “Scarier than a demon?”

“Yeah,” Theresa says, perking up excitedly. She looks up at Albert. “Father Tomas _yelled_ at him to go away, and he  _did.”_

“Scarier than the lot of 'em, that's Tomas,” Marcus says, reaching across the table to ruffle Theresa’s hair. Tomas notices that it sticks up a little at the back, just like Luis’ used to do.

Tomas’ heart aches when he thinks of Luis. He looks down at his plate to avoid looking at Marcus’ smile. He would’ve been wonderful with Luis. They would’ve loved each other.

“Thank you for breakfast, Mary,” he says, standing up. “I think I might go for a run.”

“It’s too cold,” Marcus says automatically. Tomas gives him a look.

“Come on,” says Theresa, sliding off her chair and coming to tug on Marcus’ arm. “Come on, come _on.”_

“Alright, alright,” Marcus laughs, wiping his mouth with his sleeve before standing up too. “Don’t tug my arm off, I’m coming.”

“She’s a strong kid,” Albert says quietly to Tomas, as they push their chairs in. “Do you think she’ll be alright?”

“This kind of thing can stain a child, even if they don’t have a clear memory of it,” says Tomas. “The best thing you can do for for her now is give her your love. Make sure she never doubts that she is loved again.”

***

Theresa’s room is on the third floor, and she practically drags Marcus up the stairs in her effort to get him there as quickly as possible. “Look at that,” Tomas says in wonder as he follows them up. “The steps are warped. The wood dips in the middle.”

“Yeah!” Theresa yells carelessly down, taking the steps two at a time. “That’s ‘cause they’re old.”

Tomas glances at Marcus. “How long did that take, do you think?”

“I expect that a few hundred years of being trod on every hour of the day would leave its mark,” Marcus says lightly.

Tomas smiles and ducks his head. “I think it’s beautiful. All that history, written into the floor.”

He knows that’s something they’ll never agree on. The beauty of age. Tomas loves it. The scars of a pinewood floor that’s seen too much dancing, or the smooth sheen of a stone that’s been touched by innumerable hands.

“I’ll be in our room,” he says quietly, as Marcus lets himself be tugged down the hall by Theresa’s insistent hand. He waves over his shoulder- _alright, alright-_ and Tomas watches him go.

Tomas enters their room quickly and shuts the door behind him. It’s hard to believe that tomorrow is Christmas. Back in Chicago, he would’ve counted the days.

He sits down heavily at the writing desk and buries his face in his hands. It’s been a long, long time since Tomas has had a moment’s peace. A moment to rest by a warm fire, talking with Marcus the way they used to, alone but for God and each other. For weeks now they’ve been alone but ever-moving, their steps directed by God or Mouse or necessity. It’s a life that has taken its toll on Tomas. His heart, mind, and body are all victims to it. He gets yet another reminder of this when he starts digging around for a pen, and finds one rolled all the way to the back of one of the drawers.

It takes him three tries to successfully pick it up.

God, Tomas hates his hands.

They never used to shake, but they do now. There’s a stiffness in the knuckles that Marcus likes to make light of, trying to take Tomas’ mind off it the only way he knows how. _Just wait till you get to my age._ Never mind that Tomas will never reach Marcus’ age. Not with the life he lives.

He practices closing a fist, then opening it again. Every scar has its own ache. Here are the bites from the possessed twins in Rotterdam, and here are the burns from when the father in Michigan had scalded him for daring to raise a cross to his son. That boy had nearly died, and would have, if Tomas hadn’t dragged him back from the brink of death. Mouse would’ve killed him and saved them both the trouble, if the father hadn’t been out for blood already.

Part of Tomas loved the scars. They were a sign that he was stronger, that he’d matured. Like the dips in the steps, the passage of time had been written into him. The history of his life mapped out on his hands. Almost beautiful.

Marcus didn’t like it. Tomas saw it every time they entwined their hands to pray, or when Marcus would touch his chest in bed. He hated the scars. Tomas knew that he did.

Not that Tomas would ever blame him for it. Marcus’ scars were a source of shame. An indication of his own weakness. In his eyes, they were evidence that he’d had to eke out every hour of his existence by the skin of his teeth.

One of his scars runs from just under his index finger up to the back of his left hand, perhaps two inches long from end to end. Tomas runs his thumb along it thoughtfully. A little smile tugs at his mouth when he looks at his ring finger. _A husband._ Not that he would dare wear a ring. His collar weighs heavy around his throat and reminds him that he already does.

 _“Mi esposo,”_ Tomas says aloud, rolling the word around in his mouth like he wants to learn its taste. _“Marcus Ortega.”_

He balls up his fist and opens it again, trying to work the cramps out of his fingers. Amid the scrap paper and holiday stationary he manages to scrounge up a few clean white sheets, and sets pen to paper.

He remembers the last time he wrote a love letter, and waits for guilt to arise. It doesn’t.

 _Marcus,_ he writes.

Tomas balls up the paper and shoves it in his pocket so Marcus won’t find it in the trash. He mutters to himself angrily and tries again, trying to express in some small way how full his heart feels when he thinks about that word- husband- but this time he only gets a few more words down before crumpling it up and abandoning it. Marcus’ words are ringing in his ears. _You have the soul of a poet._ Well, if God had given Tomas the soul of a poet, it was well and truly wasted on him.

The key scrapes in the lock. Tomas hurriedly shoves his latest failed endeavor into his overstuffed pockets. “It’s open.”

The door creaks open just enough for Marcus to poke his head through. “She’s got a whole little plastic table full of paper-mâché,” he says. He’s got a half-eaten apple in his hand, which he bites into with a crunch so satisfying it almost makes Tomas forget how full he is from breakfast.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, tons,” Marcus says, sidling into the room. “And she’s got loads of papered jam jars with electric candles in them, so the light comes out all different colors.”

He bumps the door closed with his hip and flops over into bed. He’s smiling, and the sight of it does Tomas’ heart good. A hot meal and a night’s rest have revitalized him. Marcus seems a new man.

A far cry from the man he’d been last night.

“You needn’t look at me like I’m a bomb about to go off,” he says, and Tomas realizes he’s been staring.

“I just want to know you’re well,” he admits with a rueful smile.

Marcus sits up, his expression a little more somber. He pulls his legs up and sits cross-legged on the crimson bedspread. “I’m fine. I know it’s been happening a bit more frequent lately, but, trust me. I’ve been around. Guess getting back in it after so many months out of it has been harder on me than I thought,” A moment’s hesitation, then, “I’m sorry it gives you grief.”

“Never apologize for something like that,” Tomas says firmly. “Never.”

“‘Spect you’re used to my carrying on my now.”

“Honestly, I missed it.”

Marcus gives him a grateful look and bites into his apple again. He eats them from the top down, core and all, which Tomas likes to joke is a sign of the Devil. “Theresa’s got all these paper trees on her wall,” he says between bites. “Looks like the forest outside.”

Tomas nods thoughtfully. “That explains why she ran off. Maybe she thought she would be safe there.”

“I asked Albert about it. Mary used to take Theresa there for walkies when she was small. Smaller, I mean.”

Tomas smiles. “Just like your mother.”

Marcus glances at him sharply. “How do you know about that?”

“You told me. Back in Chicago.”

“I did tell you, didn’t I,” Marcus says in wonder. He rolls the apple back and forth between his hands. “That must be nearly two years ago now.”

“Yeah.”

“You remembered.”

 _Of course I remembered,_ Tomas thinks, but what comes out of his mouth is, “I remember everything you’ve ever said to me.”

The confession is greeted with silence. Tomas looks away, back at the desk and the unfinished letter.

“You know,” he says, and only with his back to Marcus can he find it in himself to say it, “I used to stay up late, remembering you.”

“I don’t like thinking about that,” Marcus says quietly, and anger sparks to life in Tomas’ belly.

“Well, you’re going to,” he says, turning in his seat, but before he sees Marcus’ face the anger has already burned bright and died down. An ache, not a flame. “It felt perverse. Sleeping without you. _Praying_ without you. I would wake up in the night and listen for your breathing. I would dream of you, and when . . .”

Tomas looks down at his hands and clenches his fists tight. He knows Marcus is looking at them too. Even after all this time, he still feels the urge to hide the way they shake.

“When I woke up hard,” he says, “I would take care of myself quietly in the bathroom when I thought Mouse couldn’t here. She told me to forget you, but even then, I couldn’t hate her. It is impossible to hate her.”

Silence for another long moment, almost too long, before Tomas hears Marcus stand up. Then there’s a warm hand on his shoulder, moving to the back of his neck, sliding down his back to the place between his shoulder blades, where he likes to be scratched.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus whispers, and Tomas can tell he’s holding back. “You don’t have to tell me this.”

“But I should,” Tomas sighs, dropping his forehead against Marcus’ chest. He can feel Marcus giving him little scratches between the shoulder blades, through the fabric of his shirt. Scritch scritch scritch. “I don’t want there to be any more secrets between us. Not after what I said last night. And please, don’t apologize. I have forgiven you already.”

Tomas lets out a huff of wry laughter at his own words. No more secrets? That was hardly likely.

He couldn’t tell Marcus that he swore never to forgive him.

He remembers how it felt to see him framed in the doorway, when he’d shot off the lock and found Tomas in the same dark, damp little room where he’d lain for three days, a cloud of ash hanging over him like the sword of Damocles.

It felt like a bone pulled from its socket had been slipped back into alignment. As if all of the anger, all of the grief, all of the pain that he had held in his heart since the day Marcus had walked away had died, quickly and quietly, to make a place for their partnership again. Tomas had not forgiven him slowly, but all at once, like sunlight pouring over the morning horizon, and for the first time in his life he had understood how God could carry on forgiving, even as His children disappointed Him again, and again, and again.

“For a moment I thought you wouldn’t want me anymore,” Tomas murmurs, “but then you said . . . my _name,_ and you . . . _Marcus_ . . .”

Marcus kneels in front of him. A posture he assumes only for God and Tomas. “Did you mean what you said last night?” he asks, his voice thick with something undefinable.

Tomas looks at him. _Mi esposo,_ he thinks. “I did. And I still do.”

“It won’t be real,” Marcus says quietly, as though he’s voicing something they were both thinking, and the words make something twist like a knife in Tomas’ heart.

“No,” he says sharply, gripping Marcus’ shoulders and holding him as though he’s afraid he’s going to bolt. “It will be real in the eyes of God, and His are the only eyes that matter. Not the damn Church. My vows will be _real._ ”

He sighs heavily, shakes his head.

“It should’ve been romantic,” Tomas admits wearily. “When I asked you, I mean. You deserve more.”

Marcus breathes a little laugh and looks down at his hands. He taps his fingers nervously against his palm, and Tomas catches a glimpse of the stick-and-poke on his wrist. “Let’s not get into what I deserve,” Marcus says. “You’re a hopeless romantic when it comes to what you think I deserve.”

“God loves romantics.”

That actually makes Marcus smile. Tomas reaches out and runs a hand along Marcus’ scalp before guiding him close enough to kiss.

Marcus kisses him like salvation is behind his tongue. Like he wants to slip inside Tomas and live there, blurring the line between their bodies. God, but Tomas missed those kisses. Even the memory of them could warm the coldest motel room.

Tomas eases Marcus out of his jacket, enchanted by the way Marcus’ skin burns passion-hot against his hands. Marcus smiles into Tomas’ mouth and lets him tug Marcus into his lap, grinning wider when he has to slide forward a little on the chair to make room for Marcus’ legs. “There’s so much of you,” he murmurs fondly against Marcus’ skin. He begins to kiss up the column of Marcus’ neck, searching for the thrum of his pulse against his lips.

Tomas shifts Marcus’ hips with his hands, trying to rest him more comfortably on his lap. He moves his hands higher, up to Marcus’ waist, and his heart sings when he finds him a little heavier, a little more muscled than he once was. It used to pain Tomas, to hold Marcus in his lap and feel how light he was compared to how much of him there was to handle.

“We’ll do it tonight,” he says, before his nerves get the better of him. “Instead of Midnight Mass.”

“How?”

“I don’t know!” Tomas laughs. “I don’t know! If we were pagans, we’d cut our palms and mix the blood, but I won’t have a drop of your blood spilled. Not even for this. Ah, Marcus,” he sighs, his mouth against Marcus’ collarbone. “ _Mi león._ We’re really doing this, aren’t we. We’re really doing this.”

“Yeah,” Marcus says breathlessly. He pulls away just enough to press his forehead against Tomas’. “Yeah, we bloody well are. God, Tomas, you have no idea how happy you’ve made me.”

“I want,” Tomas whispers, but before he can finish, they hear the dull _bzz bzz_ of the burner in Marcus’ back pocket.

Marcus groans in frustration, but answers it anyway. _Sorry,_ he mouths silently at Tomas’ scowl. Tomas responds only by wrapping his arms tighter around Marcus’ waist. Marcus grins, and he’s just about to say, “What is it, Mouse,” when his face falls, and he looks as though he’s seen a ghost.

“Marcus?”

Tomas leans closer, concerned at the sudden change in expression. Marcus holds a finger to his lips and turns on speakerphone.

***

The False Bennett finds an outdoor café in the shade of Santa Lucía Hill.

He orders an iced tea and waits. Santiago is sweltering this time of year, even at this hour of the morning, when the sun is still hidden behind the mountains. The streets are upwards of ninety degrees, full of smoke and tourists and the faint smell of ash. He has yet to see a wall that isn’t tagged.

The False Bennett leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, as though baring his throat for a knife. The knife won’t fall, not when there are morning commuters two tables over and a flock of early-rising students clustered by the counter inside, ordering coffee. The demon listens to their idle chatter, their inane ideas, their sins. One of them has stolen twenty-five thousand pesos from her father. Her purse burns where it touches her skin. Another . . .

The False Bennett hears a soft creak in the chair opposite as someone sits down. “Do you ever wonder why I’m not afraid of you?” he asks, eyes still closed.

“No,” says Mouse. She sounds jet-lagged. “The thought’s never crossed my mind.”

He opens one eye and squints at her down the bridge of his nose. There’s her sun-warmed face, her long brown hair tied tight at the base of her neck. He tries to imagine her as a nun, but it’s difficult. She with her violent eyes and her breath like purifying flames.

She’s been touched by a demon. How-now, little Churchmouse? But still, she is beautiful. A face like a Caravaggio. She ought to be called Maria.

 _“Then certain vagabond exorcists were traveling from town to town casting out evil spirits in the name of the Lord Jesus,”_ the demon says aloud. The Scripture sears his tongue, but he savors the burn. _“They were saying: ‘I command you in the name of Jesus, whom Paul preaches!’ Seven sons of Sceva, a Jew and a high priest, were doing this.”_

“There is nothing of Father Bennett left in you,” Mouse says coldly. “Don’t profane the word of God with his mouth.”

She reaches across the table and takes a sip of his iced tea. The False Bennett briefly considers turning it to bleach in her mouth, but refrains from doing so. “Don’t interrupt,” he says instead, his voice clipped and arrogant, and when he sees a flash of pain in her eyes, he realizes that for a moment, she had glimpsed Father Bennett in his face.

 _“And the evil spirit answered,”_ he continues, _“and said, ‘Jesus I know, and Paul I know, but who are you?’ And it leapt upon them, and overcame them with such violence that they fled from that house naked and wounded.”_

He reaches across the table and takes back his iced tea.

“Let me be perfectly frank with you, Daughter of Sceva,” he says. “I don’t know who you are. And neither does anyone else Down There, if you get me.”

Mouse slips her hand into her coat, and the demon cocks his head at her, appraising. A few tables away, one of the commuters splutters in horror when a worm oozes itself jelly-like body up through the straw of her drink.

“Don’t draw your gun,” he says quietly. “I can do other things too.”

“Party tricks, is it?” Mouse scoffs, but she removes her hand. Instead she touches the crucifix around her neck, and worries the little golden body between finger and thumb. “You’ve resorted to Halloween frights?”

“Oh yeah, rub that crucifix,” the False Bennett says drily. “That’ll be a real comfort for you, I’m sure. What was it you said, when you and Devon here immolated Sister Dolores? _God forgives, I don’t?_ You hide behind the barrel of your fun. You exorcise in bulk, and that’s admirable. Or at least, I admire it. But when was the last time you said to the Big Man, _Thy will be done?_ Did you ask him what He thought of your whelp of an apprentice? That didn’t last long, did it. You tried to make an Inquisitor out of a bleeding-heart preacher.”

“I am more than an exorcist,” Mouse says firmly. She leans forward and plants her elbows on the table, as though the False Bennett is here for a discussion. “I am not a willing lapdog for His divine use, you’re right. I am a crusader. I have killed hundreds of your kind, and I will kill hundreds more. You forget how many of your kind I killed while I had that _‘bleeding-heart preacher’_ under my care?”

“Frightening words from a nun,” croons the demon. “Now, if _Devon_ here . . .” He runs his hand lovingly up his own neck, tightens his fingers around it as though to throttle himself. Something tightens in Mouse’s jaw. “If _Devon_ here had said such a thing to me, I’d be pissing myself. If _Devon_ were after me, I would be afraid, because I knew that meant the Big Guy was after me first. But _you_ . . .”

He leans forwards in his seat to match her, trying to dig his claws into her brain and make her squeal. “You do what you like, and you don’t bother getting the go-ahead from Upstairs. You’ve got nothing backing you up. No bullets in your gun. You can’t brute force your way into His favor, you deluded little mouse. You either have it, or you don’t.”

Mouse looks it steadily in the eyes. It’s infuriating.

“I might not have the kind of faith that calls down holy fire,” she says, “but I have friends who do.”

“You’re here alone.”

She reaches into her coat pocket. “No more tricks,” she says firmly. “No more Halloween spooks.”

She pulls out an open burner and sets it on the table between them.

The False Bennett raises its eyebrows. This is new.

“Since you think I’m all guns,” says Mouse, her voice full of contempt. “I’m going to offer to play a game. I know how your kind love games.”

She points up at the hill they sit in the shade of. It stands like a lordly, brightly-plumed bird in the center of Santiago’s urban sprawl. “You and I, right now, at the top of Santa Lucía Hill. It’ll be empty at this time in the morning, and when we get there, I’m going to let you shoot me. Once.”

Very new.

 _Wonderfully_ new.

“I will stand still,” Mouse continues, “and I will take it. Use whatever gun you like. And then, I get to do the same to you. Do we have a deal?”

“Hold on,” says the demon. “Hold on, cowboy, hold on.”

He folds his hands and adopts an attitude of pensive thoughtfulness.

“Are you suggesting,” he says finally, “that if I shoot you you won’t die? Because that would be a very bold suggestion.”

“My partners have heard everything we’ve said,” says Mouse, nodding to the burner lying between them. “They’ll intercede with Him on my behalf.”

The False Bennett whistles admiringly. “Wow. You think I’ll just play along?”

“Haven’t you already? You could’ve killed me on the plane, but you didn’t. You could’ve killed me a hundred times before that. You didn’t. All we’ve ever done is make allowances for each other.”

“You’re gonna die up there.”

“I’m willing to take that chance.”

“Fine,” says the False Bennett, and that simple act of just saying _fine_ to such an absurd proposition makes him grin. He slides his chair back with a sharp screech, standing up and brushing off his jacket.

“One more condition,” he adds as Mouse stands.

“Name it.”

“I want to talk to Marcus Keane.”

She gives him the phone without hesitation.

“Eager to throw him to the wolves, are we?” he laughs, before turning his attention to Marcus. “‘Ello, Marky-boy,” he says, in the voice of Mr. Keane. “You ‘eard everythin’, did ye lad?”

_“She’s going to kill you, you know. She’s going to fucking kill you for what you did to Bennett.”_

“Isn’t it a shame how Devon was your best friend but you weren’t his?”

_“Are you listening to me, unclean spirit? She’s not going to stop until you’re dead?”_

“She’ll stop if I shoot her in the eye on Santa Lucía Hill.”

_“You won’t kill her. I promise you, she’s not gonna die up there.”_

“Better start praying then,” says the demon. “Merry fucking Christmas.”


	3. Chapter 3

The False Bennett finds a wide, smooth expanse of stone at the top of Santa Lucía Hill, just in front of a fountain that gurgles noisily in three tall spouts. It’s an ideal place, full of lush vegetation and vibrant yellow stone. The marble pillars make it look like a cathedral.

“This is a good place to die,” he says thoughtfully, watching the early morning sun glitter off the water. “It’s too beautiful to have seen much wickedness.”

Mouse is pacing a few yards away, apparently unaffected by the many flights of steps they had climbed to get here. The demon can smell her sweating in the Chilean heat; she has tugged a black coat on over her stewardess uniform. He prefers white. It makes his new skin shine in a most pleasant way.

“You were right,” he continues, turning on his heel to look Mouse in the face. “There’s no one about at this time of day. Awfully convenient, don’t you think?”

“If there were anyone up here, you’d just scare them away.”

“Indeed I would,” says the demon. He holds out his hand for the gun.

There’s a flicker of unease across Mouse’s face. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“You don’t want to use your own gun?”

“You told me I could use whatever gun I liked.”

Mouse’s hand hesitates when she reaches for it. The False Bennett catches a glimpse of a bracelet catching the sun from just under her sleeve.

Her gun is cool and light in his hand. It ought to be heavier, for such a deadly thing.

“Six bullets?”

“We’ll only need two.”

The demon inspects the gun briefly, then turns and fires in one smooth movement. Three bullets take chunks out of the marble pillars behind it. Dust muddies the fountain water.

“Alright,” he says. “I had to check. It would be awful if I thought you were trying to deceive me.”

“Deception is the Devil’s work, not God’s.”

“Ah, yes, but you don’t _do_ God’s work,” the False Bennett clarifies. “You do your own.”

He pretends to blow a wisp of smoke off the end of the gun, and gestures to Mouse with the barrel. “How would you like it? Execution style? On your knees like a good little Catholic?”

“No. Point blank.”

“Ouch,” says the demon.

He raises the gun and points it directly between Mouse’s eyes.

***

Marcus is outside in minutes, already kneeling in the snow. Away from the prying eyes of curious holiday-goers, out where the open sky seems to sing _creation_. He grits his teeth tight and bows his head; the wind is harsh against his skin, reminding him that their warm little Christmas oasis is far from permanent.

Tomas takes longer to leave the church, but when he does, he’s got Marcus’ jacket with him. Marcus realizes with a jolt of surprise that he forgot to put it on. No wonder he’s already lost all feeling in his fingers.

He takes his coat with a quiet murmur of thanks, and Tomas kneels in the snow next to him. He watches Marcus for a moment, making sure he puts on his coat, before opening his Bible in his lap and winding his rosary around his wrist. He’s beautiful here, the wind tugging at his long hair, his cheeks ruddy from the cold. Like a saint immortalized in Catholic suffering.

 _What a pair we make,_ Marcus thinks bitterly. He with his birch tree limbs and face like a lizard’s belly, Tomas with his sun-soaked skin and eyes like drops of caramel. A man like Tomas could never have come from this frigid little island. Marcus, on the other hand, could never have been born anywhere else.

Mouse might be dying, a thousand miles away, and all Marcus can do is clasp his rosary and kneel in the snow till his skin burns.

Tomas starts to murmur quietly into his hands, his words no less fierce for their volume. _“Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo. Santificado sea tu nombre.”_ He had used to pray with a kind of yearning, desperate gentleness, but these days he prayed like his words were bullets.

Marcus opens his Bible up to Psalms. It’s one of the few books that remains mostly un-redacted, unlike Revelations, which he’s filled with sketches of his past, and Leviticus, which has been entirely blacked out with drawings of birds. Psalm 140 was one of Mouse’s favorites, or it had been a long time ago. _“Oh Lord, deliver me from the wicked man,”_ he whispers, _“and the violent man.”_

_“Perdona nuestras ofensas, como también nosotros perdonamos a los que nos ofenden.”_

_“I said unto the Lord, You are my God, hear my supplications . . .”_

They pray until their legs go numb, and their cheeks burn with cold. Marcus hates the cold, although he’s well used to it. Warmth is still a luxury to him. His jacket is the warmest thing he owns.

The clothes they travel with could fit in a single bag, and usually when they’re moving, they’re wearing as much on their bodies as possible. Marcus’ leathers show the wear and tear of the years almost as much as his face. The elbows are worn smooth, the leather soft and cracked enough for him to crumple the whole kit up into a packet if he wanted to. But it’s his, and he doesn’t have a lot of things that are his.

By the time their voices fall silent, the snow is already an inch deeper around their legs. Tomas’ breathing is heavy beside him, but besides that, all Marcus hears is the wind in the trees, and the sound of tinkling ice.

“You loved her, didn’t you,” says Tomas, after a while.

Marcus rolls the question around in his mind, looking for a better answer than the truth. There isn’t one. “Yes, I did,” His Bible is still open in his lap. He begins to flick through it without really seeing it, expecting Tomas to say something, but he doesn’t. In the silence, Marcus looks down at the Old Testament. Some time in the distant past he had painted the names of four saints across one of the chapters.

“I kissed her once,” Marcus says. No more secrets. “It was a long time ago. We confessed, and we did our Hail Marys.”

“It sounds like you didn’t enjoy it.”

“I loved her,” Marcus repeats for emphasis. “I was supposed to kiss her.”

Tomas gives him a look. “Have you ever kissed me because you were supposed to?”

Marcus blinks at him, surprised. It’s not an accusation, the way he says it. There’s not a drop of poison in his voice. He says it like he just wants to know, like he’s asking Marcus which flavor of crisps he likes best. He hates that Tomas has to ask.

“No,” Marcus says sincerely. He looks back down at the Bible, a little shocked. The gold paint gleams back at him, unmoved. “Why are you asking me this _now?_ ”

Tomas sighs. “I just,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “I find it hard to think about. You and her. I can’t imagine you getting along. Not with the way you are, and the way she is.”

Sometimes Marcus forgets that she is a different person now than she was then. A stranger, who Tomas now knew far better than Marcus ever would.

He reaches out to grip Tomas’ shoulder, and slips his hand farther to cup the back of his neck. “I’m not interested in _getting along_ with her. Not now, and not in the future.”

Tomas gives him a grateful look. “She’s not going to die,” he says. “I know she won’t. We’ve been through much worse than this.”

“Let’s keep going anyway,” Marcus says encouragingly. “Every little bit helps, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You need a scarf. Your neck is like a block of ice.”

“I can’t afford it.”

“Maybe I’ll learn to knit.”

That makes Tomas laugh, and Marcus gives him a fond tug on his curls before pulling his hand away and clasping them in front of him again. _“Our Father,”_ he begins, and he hears Tomas’ voice echo it back to him.

***

_Click._

The click ought to have been loud. It ought to have echoed among the fountains and pillars like a clap of thunder, but it did not.

The False Bennett frowns. He pulls the trigger three more times.

_Click click click._

“That’s not possible,” he says slowly. “That’s not _possible._ ”

There’s joy on Mouse’s face. Joy and even relief. She lets out a long sigh, eyes closed in bliss, and when she opens them again they burn like two black stars.

“I told you,” she says, awed. “I had faith that this would happen.”

“You expect me to believe,” the False Bennett says uneasily, “that this is divine intervention?”

“I do. You know I’m right.”

“You rigged the gun.”

“Cheap party tricks are your thing, not mine,” she says. She holds out her hand.

The False Bennett gives her a look, and hopes it burns her. He presses the gun firmly into her hand; no mistakes, no casual, fleeting movements. Slow deliberation, to show that he means business.

“If you called on your Master to protect you,” he growls lowly, “then I will call on mine.”

“Do it, then,” says Mouse, aiming the gun just as the demon had done. Right between the eyes. She holds it with both hands. “Shall I count to three?”

“No,” says the demon, and Mouse fires.

The False Bennett’s hand snaps out and the bullet splatters against his palm like a paintball.

He whistles quietly, inspecting his hand. The molten metal smokes against his skin, but he doesn’t flinch. It looks like a crushed mosquito with a popped, blood-bloated belly.

“Fuck. Did you see that?” he whispers, a Cheshire grin spreading slowly across his face. “You act like your God is something special, but compared to me and my kind, your God is a-”

The second bullet shatters his left kneecap. The third rips through his shoulder as he falls.

The pain is _incredible._

His leg goes dead from hip to toe, and his shoulder slams hard against the ground with a shock that reverberates through his bones. The demon gasps in pain, and tries to roll himself over, but the blood is already spreading and his hands are too slippery to grip the stone.

“You fucking cunt!” he screeches, half mad with the pain.

Behind it, the three spouts of the fountain gurgle wetly, and die. Something thick and green begins to float to the surface of the water, like an oil spill.

The False Bennett coughs hoarsely and rolls himself over, clawing forward across the stone. His legs drags like a lump of driftwood behind it. A foul stench pollutes the air. “I’m going to tear out your heart,” the demon snarls gutturally. “I’m going to _eat_ it, Mouse.”

“I should’ve known,” says Mouse, coming closer to stand above him. “Give a creature like you their first taste of mortal pain, and they crawl like dogs.”

She points her gun at his forehead.

“If you’re going to act like a dog, then I’m going to put you down like one.”

_Click._

_Click click click._

“Oh no,” the demon croaks merrily. “Six bullets.”

Mouse scowls in frustration just as a high, ghostly shriek echoes through the streets below them. It’s joined by another, then another. Red lights shimmer to life in the morning heat haze.

“Damn it,” Mouse snarls, scrambling to put away her gun.

“Should’ve done this with knives, Mouse,” the False Bennett groans as he slumps onto its belly. His blood smells like copper and meat, with the faintest traces of ash. “Now the _carabineros_ are here.”

“No, no no no,” Mouse mutters, gripping the demon’s collar and hoisting him up. She watches him scramble to get his legs under him to brace himself. “You’re not getting out of this. Not today.”

“I hear Chilean prisons are _hellish,”_ the demon says hoarsely. He clears his throat with a sharp sound like snapping chalk. “What are you going to do, sing hymns until the walls crack in half?”

“Maybe,” says Mouse, and she clubs him with the butt of her gun.

The back of his head hits the masonry before he knows what’s happened, and he watches her retreating back as she makes a mad dash for the nearest staircase. _I’m bleeding,_ he thinks vaguely. _I’m bleeding out._

The sirens are closing in, and even as his vision begins to fade, the demon takes a deep breath, tries to center himself.

 _I am not going to die,_ he chants quietly in the back of its head. _Death is for dogs, and I am eternal. I cannot die, I will not die, no, I will not die . . ._

This he repeats- ritual and repetition- until he loses consciousness.

***

A soft, repetitive buzz fills the air between them, and Tomas’ litanies stumble into silence. They exchange concerned looks as Marcus fishes his phone out of his pocket. “Mouse?” he says loudly, speaking over the winter wind. He gestures back at the church, and Tomas stands on wobbly legs and starts gathering up their Bibles. “Thank God. Yes, I . . . yes. Yes, we are. What’s that,” he adds sharply. “What’s that sound?”

Tomas is standing over him now, their Bibles under his arm, but at the sight of Marcus’ face he kneels again, presses himself against him shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. A question. _Is she alright?_

Marcus shakes his head. “And you can’t lose them?”

Another silence.

“Alright. Try to . . . I know you are. I know.”

The heat of Tomas against his side is more than welcoming. Marcus drapes his arm heavily around Tomas and lets him put his chin on his shoulder, trying to listen in.

“Yes,” he says finally. “Alright.”

He snaps his phone shut. “Well, she’s about to be arrested.”

“Is Father Bennett dead?”

“He’s not _Bennett_ anymore,” Marcus says bitterly, “and no. Or yes. I don’t know, and I don’t care. She’s alive, that’s what matters. What the fuck do we do now?”

Tomas sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Nothing,” he says finally.

“Nothing at all?”

“She’ll get out of it.”

“It’s _Chilean prison,_ Tomas.”

“She’ll get out of it,” Tomas repeats with emphasis. “She always does. And if Bennett’s really dead, then when she gets out, she’ll want to find us.”

“Back at it again,” Marcus says dismally. “The three bloody musketeers.”

He knows Tomas is thinking it too. At that brief time when they had been, all three of them, exorcists together, there had been no more gentle hands and no more whispering till dawn. No privacy, not that Marcus knew the meaning of the word. Their hotel rooms had singles for two and an armchair for the third to curl up in.

Tomas’ hand brushes his shoulder and slips away just as quickly, the lightest touch to say _hey, come back to me._ “Don’t dwell on it.”

“I had thought that Mouse would be good for you,” Marcus mutters. “I wanted her to teach you how to survive without me. How to be alone.”

“You were right,” Tomas says, rubbing his hands together briskly to bring the feeling back into them. “I've never felt more alone than when I was with her. And now that I’ve learned how to be alone- hands, please,” he adds, and Marcus gives him his hands. Tomas begins to rub the feeling back into them too. “Now that I’ve learned how to be alone, I don’t intend to be. Not ever again.”

“Let’s . . .” Marcus says, his voice trailing off as he watches Tomas’ fingers run across the backs of his hands, brushing the stick-and-poke on his wrist. “. . . You’re right, let’s not dwell on it now. It’s Christmas Eve.”

Tomas hums. “That reminds me,” and here he gives one of Marcus’ hands an affectionate pat. “I have something I should be working on.”

“Not a present, I hope. I haven’t got any money, or any bloody idea what I’d get you if I did.”

Tomas gives him a look, and Marcus can feel a warmth blush creeping up his neck. Tomas slips his arm around Marcus’ neck as if to pull him in for a kiss, but not before Marcus sees him glance up at the church windows. _Can’t have anyone see us,_ Marcus thinks, and it’s too familiar a thought for it to hurt anymore.

Tomas’ mouth brushes his own. Even chapped with cold, his lips are warm.

He lingers just for a moment before he pulls away, but Marcus chases the kiss, eyes half closed. “Mmm. I love your mouth.”

“It’s yours whenever you want it,” murmurs Tomas, which makes Marcus’ blood run hot despite the winter chill. Tomas lets out a little laugh that’s more of a warm exhale, and bumps Marcus with his shoulder. “You know what I’ve just realized? I’m _starving.”_

“Me too,” Marcus smiles. “But I’m always starving.”

“Maybe Albert’ll have some scrambled eggs left.”

“You go upstairs,” Marcus says fondly, brushing some of the errant snowflakes off Tomas’ head. His fingers tangle in Tomas’ hair, and he feels the sudden urge to bury his face in it. “I’ll sniff around for some food. You go warm yourself up.”

There’s a peculiar joy Marcus gets out of providing food for Tomas that he’s not sure he wants to explore. It’s matched only by Tomas’ private delight in being fed. “Come on then,” he says, his hand slipping into Marcus’, and together they go back inside, their hearts a little lighter.


	4. Chapter 4

 

Marcus has been showering for nearly half an hour. The water is beginning to grow cold.

Dinner downstairs had been his first hot dinner since God-knows-when. He’d spent the meal chatting pleasantly with Albert and Mary about the business, and Theresa, and all the little mundanities of their lives. Tomas had touched his boot against Marcus’ leg under the table, and that was the only acknowledgment they gave to each other for the whole evening, like schoolboys who knew that making eye contact would cause them to break into hysterics.

It had been a good dinner, even if Marcus’ mind was elsewhere. Thick stew and roasted vegetables. Shortbread and spiced wine and sweet, fruity Christmas pudding. All of it fresh from the kitchen and heavy in Marcus’ belly. The taste of the stew still lingers richly in his mouth.

Marcus tilts his face into the shower spray and lets the water flood down the planes of his shoulders. He keeps his eyes shut tight. Maybe if he stays here long enough, he’ll feel clean enough to be touched.

He’s hiding. He knows he is.

Together they had taken one of the red quilts off the bed and unfolded it on the hardwood floor. Far from holy, but at least it made a soft place to kneel. Regardless of the use it was currently being put to, they were still under a church roof.

Marcus had excused himself shortly after and barricaded himself in the bathroom.

The water is winter cold now, and Marcus shuts it off before it can leech the hear from his blood. He doesn’t let him think too much about what’s waiting for him out there. If he does, he’ll want to run.

He always runs. Always.

But not tonight.

Marcus takes a deep breath, crosses himself, and steps out of the shower. He towels off and dresses, and when he finally leaves the bathroom he finds Tomas standing by the window, running his fingertips along the ridges in the whorled glass. He is fully dressed, looking every inch a priest, but he’s taken off his boots and is standing barefoot on the wooden floor.

Marcus comes up behind him and Tomas moves aside, making room for him by the window. The forest looks so distant from behind the ancient stone walls of the church. Little more than a charcoal smudge on the frozen landscape. Marcus touches the glass, and his fingers leave streaks in the condensation.

Tomas nuzzles his nose against Marcus’ cheek, and Marcus’ eyes fall closed. He turns his head to kiss Tomas’ forehead, and Tomas tilts his head back, allows him to press a kiss to the white slip of his collar.

It tastes like clean cotton against his lips. Behind it, Marcus can feel the throb of Tomas’ pulse.

“I don’t know what to do,” he murmurs against Tomas’ throat.

“Neither do I,” Tomas admits. He catches Marcus’ hand in his own and brings it to his mouth, kissing his knuckles like he’s kissing the Pope’s ring. He gives Marcus’ hand a firm squeeze. “Is this what you want?”

 _I’ve wanted this since before I knew you,_ Marcus wants to say, but instead he says, “Yes,” and they go to kneel opposite each other on the quilt.

The floor under the cloth makes Marcus’ knees ache, but it’s the familiar ache of kneeling and one which he readily embraces. He takes off his boots and socks and shoves them under the bed, where he knows he’s already stowed his jacket.

Their exorcism bag is tucked under the bed too, still slightly open and showing a glint of metal. Tomas reaches under the bed to draw it out. Inside is a cluttered knot of white candles, Bibles, chains, a bottle of anointment oil, a knife, rope, more chains, bottles of water both blessed and unblessed, and a side pocket in which Tomas’ stole is tucked neatly away from everything else. This he removes and drapes around his shoulders.

“I wish we’d done this sooner,” he says, adjusting his stole so it lies right-side up.

“Yeah, ’s funny,” Marcus says, gaze lowered, hands clasped tight in his lap.

Tomas reaches out to touch his arm. “We have been married for some time now,” he says gently. “This . . . this is only a ritual.”

“Only a ritual,” Marcus repeats. “Our lives are built on rituals.”

“They don’t have to be,” says Tomas, and Marcus feels a rush of gratitude at the words.

They sit up straight, their bodies poised and their posture practiced. Tomas takes a deep breath to steady himself, and Marcus begins to feel more at ease.

“Let us call upon God to be with us,” says Tomas, “as we two become one. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

“Almighty God,” says Marcus. He knows the words, though he’s never performed them.

“Hear our prayers, and give us Your blessing. We ask this though our Lord Jesus Christ, Your Son, Who lives and reigns with You. We ask that you seal and strengthen Our love, that You might abundantly bless us to assume the duties of marriage in mutual and lasting fidelity.”

“Amen.”

“Amen.”

Tomas pauses, and Marcus reaches out to clasp their left hands together. He wants to say something, but worries that words will break the fragility of the moment. Caught by a sudden whim, he instead begins to look through their exorcism bag for his iron rosary, and when he finds it, he begins to wind it tightly around their clasped hands, binding them together.

He hears Tomas’ breath catch, and Marcus knows he’s done something right.

“Do you . . .” Tomas says thickly. He licks his lips, tries again. “Do you give yourself to me in marriage freely and without reservation?”

“I do,” says Marcus, and the weight of the ritual seems to crash down on him all at once, all the hundreds of thousands of _I do’s_ that came before them giving this one weight. “Do you give yourself to me in marriage freely and without reservation?”

“I do.”

“Do you intend to love and honor me as your husband, for the rest of your life?”

“I do,” he says again, his face unreasonable. “Do you intend to love and honor me as your husband, for the rest of your life?”

“I do.”

“Then with our hands joined,” says Tomas, “let us declare our consent before God.”

Marcus swallows, his throat terribly dry. Tomas’ dark eyes seem to burn into him, and he drops his gaze.

 _I am not a poet,_ he thinks. He starts talking.

“Mine is a wandering soul, but you found me,” Marcus says, his voice clear and slow. “I say this before God: I will never abandon you. I will fight for you, and warm you, and love you always. You have made me brave, and my love for you is eternal. I give you my body, and my blood. I am the gun, and you are the hand that holds me.”

He can feel Tomas’ hand trembling in his own. He gives it another gentle squeeze.

“I am yours,” Tomas whispers, and Marcus is suddenly finding it very difficult to breathe. “Before I knew you, I was yours, and I will be yours long after we have gone home to Paradise. You are my king. I will hold you at night, and greet every morning with you. I will guide you as you have guided me, uphold you, protect you, and comfort you. With my every action I will honor you, and I will walk with you wherever you go. I love you.”

The words hang in the air, as immaterial as light through a church window. Marcus wants them immortalized in stained glass.

Tomas gently extricates his hand from Marcus’. Marcus feels the sudden urge to hold tighter, but Tomas’ hand is already gone, and he watches with wide eyes as Tomas begins to fumble with the button at the back of his collar.

Slowly, Marcus tilts his head up, like a child trying to see God behind a cloud. He feels Tomas’ fingertips brush his neck.

Tomas buttons the collar around his throat, just tight enough for him to feel it when he swallows. It’s a familiar weight. The cotton is still warm from Tomas’ pulse.

“What God has joined together, let no one separate. In the name of our Lord, amen," Tomas murmurs, his breath damp against Marcus’ skin.

Marcus leans forward to kiss him, and the covenant is sealed.

He can feel something rising in him, something hot and powerful and roaring. He wants to cry out to the heavens,  _see how He rewards His children._ Tomas’ arms wrap around him, and if Marcus were standing, he would’ve fallen to his knees. When they part, Tomas’ lips are already red, and he presses their foreheads together like Marcus is the only thing anchoring him. The silence is heavy between them, pregnant with words unspoken and words that don’t need to be said.

“Tomas,” Marcus says with a shaky laugh. He squeezes one of Tomas’ arms. “You’re going to crush me.”

“Sorry,” Tomas breathes.

Marcus starts cautiously running his hands up and down Tomas’ arms, feeling the muscles jump under his fingertips. “God, you’re strong,” he chuckles weakly, trying to diffuse some of the heaviness in the air. He sniffs wetly and rubs his nose with the back of his wrist.

Tomas runs his hands up Marcus’ back, where they rest against his shoulder blades. “I’m glad you like that.”

“I like it a lot.”

“It’s because I care about my health, unlike some people I know.”

“Maybe I’ll start,” says Marcus, which makes Tomas sigh a laugh against his cheek, and it feels so good to know that the easiness between them isn’t gone. Marcus already feels like he’s on the edge of something beautiful. His heart is full to bursting, and if he falls, he doesn’t know where he’ll land.

 _But you do know,_ whispers a private thought at the back of his mind, _because Tomas will catch you._

“You should,” Tomas says playfully, running his fingernails up and down Marcus’ back to put him at ease. “You’re so slim, _mi león._ I could pick you up and carry you, or just throw you over my shoulder.”

The thought makes something hot bloom in Marcus’ belly. “I doubt that.”

“It would be easy,” Tomas says, and he must’ve seen the look in Marcus’ eyes because he moves closer, and a look of exaggerated thoughtfulness crosses his face. “Unless, of course, your bones are too brittle for it.”

“Are you calling your _husband_ an old man?” Marcus laughs warmly, pushing his forehead against Tomas’ like a cat trying to rub its scent into someone it loves. “Do it then. Go on. _Do it.”_

Tomas gives him a look of barely disguised delight, and gets to his feet in no further need of convincing. Marcus stands too and faces him awkwardly, unsure of what to do with his hands as Tomas snakes his arm around his back.

“Ready?” he asks. Marcus nods.

Tomas crouches to slip his other arm behind Marcus’ knees, and in one fluid movement he stands up again, taking Marcus with him.

“Wait wait alright hold on,” Marcus gasps, “wait, alright, fuck this, put me down.”

“Problem?”

“Yes, luv, problem, I feel like a fuckin’ boy,” Marcus grins, unable to prevent the laughter from bubbling out of him. He presses his forehead against Tomas’ shoulder and pretends that his arms around Tomas’ neck are there out of necessity. “Put me down.”

“Alright,” Tomas says with a proud smile. “If you say so.”

He drops Marcus onto the bed, where he bounces a little on the soft mattress. Marcus groans in pain at once, arching his back as he presses his hand to the base of his spin. “Ah . . . my fuckin’ _back,_ Tomas, fuck’s sake . . .”

“Oh God, Marcus,” Tomas stammers, his face falling. He leans over the bed in concern. “Did I-”

Marcus’ hand seizes Tomas’ shirt and yanks him down onto the mattress with a loud _fwump._ Tomas gasps in surprise and Marcus is already on top of him, his arms braced on either side of his head.

“Gotcha,” Marcus grins with barely suppressed glee.

“You son of bitch!” Tomas laughs delightedly, and all the anxiety that had plagued Marcus seems insignificant now, gone like a summer breeze.

He’s here.

He’s really here.

Tomas tries to wrestle his way out from under him and Marcus lets him, laughing and baring his teeth like a lion letting its cub think it’s winning a fight. After a moment’s eager scuffling Tomas finally gets him on his back, pinning him down with his legs spread and his face flushed from exertion. Marcus sees Tomas’ pupils blow wide with desire, and gives him a shy grin.

Tomas leans down and presses his mouth hungrily to Marcus’ jaw. His hips press firmly up against him, as though Marcus needs any encouragement to grow hard. “Why are you like this,” Tomas groans, kneeling above him just long enough to start unbuckling his belt. Marcus is pleased to note that his hands are shaking.

It is Tomas, always, who is so willing to let things he doesn’t fully understand move his body and guide his thoughts. He lets his passion break him against Marcus like water against stone, and Marcus lets himself be swept up by it.

Their clothes come off too quickly and are discarded on the floor. Marcus fumbles with the collar, but before he can remove it Tomas places his hand on Marcus’ throat. “Keep it on,” he says, a note of desperation in his voice, and Marcus is helpless beneath his hand.

Tomas’ fingertips run down his neck to the dip of his collarbone, and down to his chest where he stops and lays his palm over his heart. He breathes a little sigh of wonder when his hand travels further down, resting his palm on Marcus’ pale belly.

“I can’t feel your ribs anymore,” he says fondly.

Marcus stares up at him, powerless. He bites back a groan as Tomas lets his hands enjoy him further, running across every inch of exposed skin he can reach. Tomas has learned him by heart. His lips have kissed every scar, and he has pressed his nose against every curve and crevice where Marcus’ scent is the strongest. Marcus is a man brought to his knees by gentleness, and to be given it so freely, without restraint, is enough to unman him entirely.

Marcus’ eyes are closed- looking at Tomas’ face too long in bed is like looking at the sun- and he feels the placement of weight on the bed shift as Tomas’ hands leave his skin. He opens his eyes and takes a moment to breathe as Tomas reaches down off the end of the bed and digs around in their exorcism bag.

Marcus’ heart stutters in his chest. His fantasies had always left this part out; in them, he had given himself freely to his husband, and their first consummation had been as easy and pleasurable as it was between man and woman.

Shame floods him now at the thought. An old man now, and still as naïve as a Catholic schoolboy.

Tomas comes back to him with the bottle of anointment oil in one hand, and the other running up and down Marcus’ thigh, trying to ground him. Marcus catches a glimpse of his eyes, and he doesn’t have to ask to know what he’s thinking.

Marcus nods, almost imperceptibly, and Tomas lets out a shaky exhale and drips a couple of golden drops of oil onto his palm. Then, with one arm braced against the bed to keep himself upright, Tomas begins to stroke his cock.

Marcus’ head falls back against the pillow, dizzy with anticipation and a desire to be good for him. The room is silent but for their ragged breathing, and the sound of the oil on Tomas’ cock. The sound makes Marcus’ cock twitch shamefully, and a clear drop of precum drips onto his belly. He hears Tomas moan in appreciation.

Tomas draws closer, his weight shifting on the mattress, and clenches his hand in the sheets by Marcus’ head. Marcus can smell his sweat, he’s so close, and Tomas lets out a little whimper that makes Marcus want to kiss him. He does, as deeply as he can in their awkward position, and puts his palm flat against Tomas’ chest. He can feel the muscles moving under his hand, all that raw energy kept in check just for him. He can even feel the thundering of Tomas’ heart.

Marcus is so preoccupied with Tomas’ chest that when he feels a hand between his legs he nearly jumps out of his skin. “Shh, shh,” Tomas mumbles soothingly against his skin. “Shh.”

Marcus feels the head of Tomas’ cock rub wetly against his entrance, and he grits his teeth and groans. Once, when they had a room to themselves and the heat of passion had been hot between them, Tomas had pressed his mouth against him there. It had been the first time Marcus had been touched in that place, and it had been wet and warm and wonderful, but nothing compared to this.

“Slowly,” he stammers, his thoughts coming in confused fragments. _Be gentle with me, be gentle, I know my body wasn’t made for gentleness, but please, please . . ._

Tomas holds himself up with both hands and leans down to press their foreheads together again. It’s then that Marcus realizes Tomas is shaking like a leaf.

He reaches up and runs his hands soothingly down Tomas’ sides. “Shh, shh,” he murmurs, pushing aside his own nerves for Tomas’ sake. “It’s alright, ‘atta boy. _Estás conmigo, quédate conmigo.”_

Tomas sighs against Marcus’ skin, and finally begins to move.

The first gentle press inside draws a gasp from Marcus’ lungs, and he grips Tomas’ shoulders as though afraid he’s going to fall. Tomas lets out a groan that trails away into low, wordless whimpers as he hides his face against Marcus’ neck.

It’s the _fullness_ that Marcus feels first, before the burning pain-pleasure of being penetrated for the first time. The feeling of being sated. In the back of his mind he knows it’s not Tomas’ first time, but Marcus can feel him trembling and hot, lost in the bliss of pressing deeper into a tight, wet heat.

Every firm, rolling movement of Tomas’ hips makes Marcus burn with longing. Tomas’ weight is pressing him down into the mattress, keeping him still and safe, but _God_ he feels martyred on Tomas’ cock, as fragile and fluttery as a wounded bird.

How many men had there been? How many men had he seen during those horrible months of separation, men with dark hair and skin the color of soft caramel? How many men had he looked at and thought, _I should let him take me,_ because he had lost his dearest friend in this world and the next, so wouldn’t that be almost enough? How many midnights spent lying awake, listening to the waves on the shore outside and regretting that he had never given himself to him, not in that way. Ritual and repetition, ritual and repetition, the ritual of the wedding and the thrust, thrust, _thrust_ of the repetition . . .

 _“Tomas,”_ Marcus cries out, clutching Tomas’ shoulders, digging his fingernails into the muscles of his back. “Tomas, please, God, I . . .”

There are tears in his eyes and he screws up his face to hold them back, shut them down, don’t ruin this for Tomas, but Tomas sees him and his hand is already on Marcus’ cheek. His veins stand out under his skin as he holds himself up with one arm.

 _“Dios mio,”_ Tomas sounds as helpless as Marcus feels. Marcus parts his lips for him, lets Tomas feed on his open mouth. _“Marcus . . . D-Dios . . ._ I’m almost . . . already . . .”

“I’ve got you,” Marcus says breathlessly, even though it’s Tomas who has him, Tomas who’s keeping him grounded. He can feel Tomas' heartbeat _inside_ him, his pulse throbbing in his cock.

 _“Dime algo hermoso,”_ Tomas starts pressing feverish kisses against Marcus’ cheek, down to his jaw. “Anything, anything, I need . . . I need your voice, Marcus . . . or I can’t . . .”

“You’re so beautiful,” Marcus groans, loosening his grip on Tomas’ back enough for him to soothe the nail marks with his palm. “That’s my boy, Tomas, you- you’re so good for me, Tomas, you’re doing so well . . .” He’s rambling now, he knows he is, but the pleasure is building inside him, knotting his muscles in his core, and he can’t hold on much longer.

“Tell me I’m pleasing you,” Tomas gasps. The desperation in his voice _ruins_ Marcus. “Tell me I’m doing a good job.”

Marcus can feel his cock throbbing where it rubs against Tomas’ belly. “You are, you are,” he says hoarsely, reaching up to bury his fingers in Tomas’ hair and guide his head down, till his lips brush the shell of Tomas’ ear. “Tomas, listen to me,” he breathes desperately. “Listen.”

“I’m listening,” Tomas manages to say, his voice wrecked, and God, Marcus knows how that feels.

“When He spoke to me, He said your name, Tomas. He said so many things, but your name, your _name_ . . .”

Marcus hears a sharp intake of breath, and Tomas’ thrusts begin to grow less regular, more erratic. “What did it sound like,” he asks tremulously. “What did my name sound like, in His mouth . . ?”

“He said your name the way you say _mine_.”

Tomas lets out a long, low whine that makes Marcus’ heart want to burst. Instead he wraps his arms around Tomas and crushes him close against his chest. He tries to speak but no words come out, and he hopes Tomas understands.

His teeth graze Tomas’ shoulder.

Tomas lets out a low, strangled scream when he comes, and Marcus can feel his seed spill into him, warm and wet.

_Consummated._

The word fills up Marcus’ imagination, captures it and doesn’t let go.

Tomas lowers himself down, heavy and sweat-slick and clutching Marcus like a lifeline. The sensation of holding him there, _satisfied,_ is what pushes Marcus over the edge, and he spills himself between their bellies. His orgasms had once been violent, nearly painful in their intensity, but with time and attention they had become unimaginable pleasures.

They lie in silence, Marcus’ arms curved around Tomas’ waist, Tomas lying on Marcus’ chest, both of them red-faced and panting in the blissful aftermath. Marcus is overwhelmed by the realization that this act, which above all other acts is the one most mocked and defiled by demons and their kind, has turned out to be the most innocent thing in the world.

Tomas shifts in his arms, just enough to carefully ease out of him. The strange, slippery warmth of Tomas’ seed inside him makes Marcus feel thoroughly adored. A covenant, locked into place. Marcus catches himself trying to cant his hips just so, to prevent it from dripping out. He feels like he ought to be ashamed of this desire, but Tomas’ collar is still snug around his throat, and shame feels a million miles away.

Tomas tucks his face against Marcus’ neck, and Marcus lets him. His back really will be paining him in the morning but he can’t bring himself to care, so he lets Tomas fall asleep on top of him, his body heavy and solid and his breathing slow against Marcus’ skin. No words. No stumbling, foolish, all-too-human words. Marcus hears everything he needs to in the silent spaces between Tomas’ breaths.

When blissful exhaustion finally drags him into sleep, his last thoughts are of his husband, and the long, long road they have ahead of them.

***

There are three things that need to be done before they step out into the frosty Christmas afternoon and don’t look back.

The first is their goodbyes. They shake Albert’s hand and kiss Mary on the cheek, one after the other. Theresa in particular is reluctant to see them go, and she even plucks up the courage to wish Tomas a _“fleas navidad,”_ which Tomas finds strangely endearing.

“Is he gonna come back?” she asks Marcus, when he stoops down to say goodbye to her.

“No,” he says, “but you know what we say if he does, right?”

“The power of Christ compels you.”

“That’s m’girl.”

The second thing is to kill their burner, which they do quickly and quietly, before they can change their minds. Marcus pops off the back and crushes the SIM card, along with anything else that looks important, until it’s reduced to a piece of dead metal that once told them where to go, what to do, and when to pray. Tomas says they’ll regret it, Marcus insists that they won’t, and they end up kissing each other breathless against the window while their luggage lies half-packed around them.

“No more orders,” Marcus mumbles between kisses. “No more. Our orders come from the Man Upstairs now.”

“No more money either,” Tomas manages to say, as preoccupied with Marcus’ mouth as Marcus is with his. “We’ll have to run from Mouse as well as the Church.”

“Been running away all my life,” Marcus says with a smile. “Now at least I’ve got something to run towards.”

The third thing sits quietly in a desk drawer, making Tomas’ stomach twist into knots the longer he thinks about it. It doesn’t come till later, after Tomas finally asks Marcus about his tattoo.

Marcus is sitting at the desk when he says this, lacing up his boots, and the question makes him glance up at Tomas with a crooked smile. “I got it in prison.”

Tomas gives him a look, and Marcus laughs. The way his skin crinkles at the corners of his eyes transforms his whole face.

“Can’t imagine me in prison, can you?” Marcus says playfully.

“I can easily imagine it,” Tomas says with a grimace. “Tell me where you really got it.”

Marcus hums thoughtfully. “The Ukraine. Less than a day after what had been, at the time, my most challenging exorcism. That was the first time I’d had a gun pulled on me.”

“Oh,” Tomas says softly.

“I remember looking down the barrel of it, and seeing myself. I remember thinking how inconvenient it would be for the Church if I died,” Marcus glances down at his hands, the hands that fill Tomas’ most private fantasies, and chuckles derisively at them before continuing to lace up his boots. “Went out the next day and got a stick-and-poke in a shelter by the local parish.”

Tomas comes over to him and kneels in front of him. Marcus’ hands go still on the laces, and Tomas gently moves them aside to tie them himself. “You must’ve been young.”

“Very,” Marcus says, watching Tomas with a dazed expression. “I had hair, then.”

“You did not.”

“I did,” Marcus insists, which makes Tomas breathe a sigh of laughter against his leg. “Even longer than yours is now.”

“You must’ve looked like a real lion back then,” Tomas murmurs. _"Mi joven león, siempre fuiste guapo, pero nunca más que cuando estás en mi cama.”_

“Don’t you fucking start,” Marcus says shakily, and Tomas is delighted to see a blush creeping up his neck. He firmly ties the last knot in the laces so he can stand up and kiss Marcus properly; he could kiss him till his lips went dry, and would never tire of it.

Tomas breaks the kiss and takes a moment to look, just to look, at the face he'd woken up to that morning. They had awoken early, with the knowledge that they would have to leave soon, and they lingered in bed for a long while, having made a mutual, silent agreement that they might never know this comfort again, and it was better to cling to the warmth of their down pillows as long as possible.

Tomas had been content, had almost managed not to let his romantic soul get away with him, but then Marcus had sat up in bed, the blankets pooling around him, and Tomas had caught a glimpse of his cock hanging soft between his legs. It was that little glimpse, more than anything else, that had made something clench in Tomas’ heart. _My God,_ he thought, _he feels safe with me._ The thought was accompanied by such an overwhelming swell of emotion that for a moment Tomas felt like his heart could have cracked in half.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Marcus says gently. “I don’t know what I’ll do if you look at me like that.”

“I have a Christmas present for you,” says Tomas, which is not what he meant to say, but in all fairness he’s having a difficult time ordering his thoughts.

“So do I,” says Marcus, which surprises him. “It’s not much.”

He looks almost ashamed of himself, and Tomas kisses him again, shuts that thought down before it can go anywhere. “Mine’s not much either,” he says. “It’s only a letter.”

Tomas tugs open one of the desk drawers and begins to look for it while Marcus stands, and goes to dig around under the bed. Tomas finds it all the way at the back of the drawer, folded up neatly in a bright red envelope.

“Here,” says Marcus, when he finally straightens up. He’s holding a brown paper parcel in both hands, and if he wasn’t red-faced before, he certainly is now. “Merry Christmas. I hope . . . I thought you might like to have it. Anyway.”

“Wow,” says Tomas, exchanging his letter for the parcel. It’s big, and it’s soft. He sits down at the desk and can feel the weight of it immediately when he puts it on his lap. “Thank you.”

“Y’don’t even know what it is yet.”

“I’m sure I’ll . . .” Tomas starts to say, just as he peels back the paper to reveal soft black leather.

Tomas feels himself break out in gooseflesh that has nothing to do with the winter chill. He runs his fingertips down the cracks and ridges in the leather, and when he unfolds the rest of it, Marcus’ jacket splays across his lap.

“Marcus,” he whispers. “I can’t.”

“Please. I want you to.”

Tomas can’t even look at him. He picks up the jacket in both hands, presses his face into the neckline, and breathes. It even smells like him, and when Tomas slips his arms into the sleeves, the scent lingers. The leather is a little snug around the shoulders, and the sleeves are just a bit too long, but it feels like he’s being held, and the lining is butter-soft against his skin.

Tomas looks up to stammer a “Thank you,” even though a _thank you_ isn’t quite enough for what he’s feeling, to find Marcus sitting cross-legged on the bed, his hand over his mouth, and the letter still open in his hand.

Tomas starts to gather up the loose paper so he has something to do with his hands. Suddenly every word he could’ve said differently, every metaphor that eluded him, comes back to rattle around in his head. You could’ve said this, you should’ve wrote that.

He eventually finds the courage to approach Marcus where he sits on the bed. He sits down next to him and puts his hand on Marcus’ shoulder. Marcus laces their fingers together at once.

“You wrote this?” he says weakly.

Tomas nods. He looks down at the bedspread. “It’s . . . you should have more,” he says, running his other hand up one of the sleeves of Marcus’ jacket. “It’s not like _this,_ but . . .”

 _“God,”_ Marcus breathes, and then Marcus’ mouth is on his, and Tomas’ cry of surprise is lost in the press of their lips.

He opens his mouth to him, lets Marcus kiss him deeper, and just when his hands come up to rest against Marcus’ shoulder blades Marcus starts laughing again. He breaks the kiss and just presses their foreheads together, and he’s shaking all over, and it’s not quite laughing but it’s not quite crying and whatever it is it makes Tomas want to hold him tighter, so he does.

 _My husband,_ Tomas thinks, enamored with what God has given him. His husband tries to kiss him again, but now he can’t stop smiling, and Tomas is smiling too, and for a moment, just a moment, he lets himself forget the journey that led them there, and the fresh horrors waiting on the road ahead. For that one, golden moment, he lets himself believe that everything will be alright.

And for one day of the year, it is.


	5. Epilogue

_Marcus. My husband._

_I love you._

_I don’t tell you that enough. There are so many things I should say to you, but haven’t. Writing comes more easily to me than speaking. Here I have all the time in the world to order my thoughts, and still I don’t know where to begin._

_I have always wanted to learn more of your early life, but never more so than when we came here. I can imagine you stepping fully-formed from this cold and unforgiving country. I think of you flourishing in the secret places of the forest, your body like one of those tall white birches, with their ghostly branches that shine even in the dark._

_Not that I see you as a ghost, my love. It is just that sometimes when I look at you, I see a wreath of divine light so beautiful that I can hardly believe you are flesh and blood. My own, and my only. I want to kiss you, but you are downstairs charming the guests, and I am here._

_I wish I could explain to you how it feels to write this letter in a room that we share, with a warm heater in the fireplace and the chatter of happy people just barely audible through the floor. I have written other letters in the past, but none that felt righteous. I wrote them in the dark, and I wrote them alone._

_Those letters seem a thousand miles away. With every word I write I want you to read between the lines, and hear, “I love you.”_

_Our lives and our work are one and the same. To love you and to be an exorcist, those are one and the same too. But there are times when I wish I could lay you down and let you rest. I need you, Marcus, and when I tell you that I will never abandon you, it’s as much for my own sake as yours. I am selfish in that way. In many ways. Selfish and proud and vain. The thought that you would have me as your husband is dizzying._

_I never wanted to be married before I knew you._

_I have been thinking about you all day, squirming in my seat as I imagine our wedding, and what comes after. Just the thought of you is intoxicating, and here you’re only a staircase away._

_I remember the first time we made love. I’ve turned that memory over and over in my mind in the nights when you weren’t there. I must’ve made a fool of myself, my hands shaking when they touched you. I was so nervous, I could barely speak English. I remember how blue your eyes were as you tried to hide your face for shame, yet arched into my touch. I had wanted you for so long, and there you were, letting me kneel for you. No wonder we finished so quickly._

_I remember the first time you spoke Spanish to me in bed. God, I remember it so well. We had woken up early, staring down the barrel of another twelve-hour drive, our hands all over each other like schoolboys at seminary. You whispered into my ear, rough and soft all at once, and I cried out and spent myself in your hand._

_Your hands, Marcus, your hands. I could write a letter about your hands alone. Rough when I touch them, yet always so gentle when they touch me. The gentlest hands I’ve ever known, hands that fight and heal and hold tight. God is in you, my love, and He works through your hands. He has blessed every part of you, but your hands are sacred._

_God, Marcus, I wish you were here to touch me now. I want to lay you out on our marriage bed and make love to you properly._

_I get carried away in my thoughts, Marcus. You must understand, for so long I had nothing but the memories of our little moments. The thought that we might share more of them was too distant and unlikely for me to consider. Yet here I am, and here you are, and you have made me the happiest man alive._

_If I had my way, I would have more to offer you. But I offer myself to you, body and heart and soul, and that is all anyone can really give, isn’t it?_

_I love you, and I hope that this will be the first of many letters._

_Your faithful husband,_ _  
Tomas_


End file.
